


Surprise, Surprise

by laylabinx



Series: A Ballad of Beaten Bards [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Geralt doesn't want a friend but it's too fucking late now, Geralt picks up the pieces, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier has a bad time, Nightmares, Shock, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laylabinx/pseuds/laylabinx
Summary: Even in the dim light, he can see that Jaskier is absolutely covered in blood. His clothes are splattered with it, his face is streaked, there’s even blood in his hair. His arms are slick and saturated up to the elbow and the sharp, polished blade Geralt had given him before he went into the cave is still gripped tightly in one fist like he can’t let it go. His knees are drawn up to his chest like he’s trying to make himself very small and aside from his quiet, hitched breathing he doesn’t move at all.Jaskier blinks at him and his expression crumples just slightly as he stifles back a sob. “I killed them.”(Or Jaskier is forced to kill in self-defense and does not handle it well. Geralt helps him pick up the pieces.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: A Ballad of Beaten Bards [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604944
Comments: 120
Kudos: 1530
Collections: RAAA, witcher





	Surprise, Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Show of hands, who is now obsessed with this show and completely devastated it won't be back until 2021? Not just me, cool. Like many of you I fell in love with Jaskier immediately and while I've only had Jaskier for a day and half if anything were to happen to him I would kill everyone in this room and then myself. Luckily, so would Geralt. No slash in this but heavy on the bromance.

Jaskier possesses the uniquely annoying talent of managing to surprise Geralt at the most unlikely times. Which is problematic for a number of reasons, the first being that Geralt of Rivia does not appreciate being surprised. Surprises lead to mistakes which then, almost immediately, leads to a very violent, very bloody end. Geralt has spent the majority of his long, long life learning not to be surprised, to expect the unexpected and to be prepared for any eventuality that might occur.

Monsters were easy to predict (despite whatever tactics they thought they might give them an advantage) and it was a very rare situation indeed when Geralt found himself surprised while on a hunt. Humans, on the other hand, were more complicated. Not infinitely so, they all wanted the same thing: food, beer, or sex (sometimes a combination of all three) but humans tended to be much more irrational and unpredicatable which is why Garelt typically kept his distance. Monsters he could handle, humans...eh.

Which is why he finds it so incredibly frustrating that he now has a human following him around like a lovesick puppy. He keeps telling himself it will eventually become too dangerous, that Jaskier will eventually come to his senses and stop trailing in Geralt’s footsteps before he gets himself killed. Jaskier is still headstrong and foolish in the way most young people are, believing himself invincible and protected by Destiny because he has a story to tell. The problem with that theory, however, is that Destiny doesn’t give a shit about your story and could just as soon see you with a sword through your belly than allow you to live a day past ninety. Destiny was a fickle bitch in the best of circumstances and certainly didn’t choose sides. Still, Jaskier flounced and flirted with Destiny the way he did with all his conquests and followed Geralt into the throws of battle more often than not these days.

It’s infuriating.

And to make matters worse (so, _so_ much worse) Geralt has grown accustomed to the bard’s presence. He doesn’t like him, hell, he barely tolerates him most days, but the bard’s rambling stories accompanied by the strum of his lute have become familiar background noise in the recent months. They don’t always travel together, weeks will bleed into months without so much as a glimpse of one another, but occasionally their paths will cross and then Jaskier will serve as Geralt’s shadow for the foreseeable future.

The Witcher has stopped trying to shake him off because first of all, it’s pointless, and second, Jaskier turns every grunt, growl, and grumble into a song so Geralt resigns himself to this level of personal hell and lets the bard tag along. Jaskier is not bad company, he’s just...Jaskier.

After all their traveling together, Geralt thinks he’s learned everything he needs to know about Jaskier and the kind of person he is. He’s learned his moods, his tone of voice, and, gods help him, even some of the bard’s songs. And that’s the problem; Geralt has him all figured out until he doesn’t and Jaskier does something to surprise him all over again.

Dick.

They’ve been up in the mountains for a few days now, tracking a troll that’s been terrorizing the villagers for the better part of the year. It started out with a few sheep missing, then some cattle, and then some children here and there. A handful of villagers armed with rakes and dull shovels had attempted to drive the creature away and had been reduced to human jelly for their efforts.

One of the villagers had heard rumors of a Witcher passing through the valley and had gone to find him in the next town over. They didn’t have much, the man explained, handing over a small pouch jingling with coins, but they didn’t know what else to do. Geralt made a small, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, finished his beer, and followed the man outside, Jaskier right on his heels.

It wasn’t difficult to find the troll’s path up the mountain; between the broken tree branches and scattering of human and animal remains along the trail even a non-monster hunter could have deduced where the troll had gone.

Which is why the presence of the two escorts doesn’t make any sense. The men claimed they would serve as guides, that they wanted to help rid their lands of the Beast of the Mountains, but Geralt didn’t trust them. He wasn’t sure of their angle just yet but they did have an angle, of that Geralt was certain. Fame, money, bravado, it was too early to tell but there was something just under the surface, something that didn’t sit right. Humans were unpredictable and Geralt didn’t like unpredictable.

Finding the troll’s lair was easy; it looked and smelled like a killing field and literally had a decomposing human arm pointing in the direction of the den. It wasn’t a cave, not necessarily; it was a fissure formed between two walls of stone and granite that had probably been the result of an earthquake or a rock slide. However its formation, the troll was in there and that much was certain.

Geralt had already made the decision to enter the troll’s lair alone; Roach was too large to fit through the jagged opening and he wasn’t about to risk his horse getting ripped apart by an angry troll and Jaskier would just provide unnecessary distraction. He didn’t care what the other two men did so long as they didn’t get in the way. He still didn’t trust them though so before he ventured into the cave he pulled Jaskier aside and pressed a blade into his hand.

“Ah, what a lovely...sharp weapon,” the bard mumbled, staring down at the polished steel in his hand.

“Keep it,” Geralt ordered, his gaze shifting toward the two men who had accompanied them. “The troll might not be the only threat up here.”

Jaskier followed his gaze and watched as their traveling companions quietly set up a small camp in a thicket of trees a few yards away. “You think they’re dangerous?” the bard asked quietly, his eyes still locked on the men setting up camp.

“Potentially,” Geralt muttered, ensuring his own weapon was securely sheathed at his back. “The sooner we’re rid of them the better.”

“What should I do?” Jaskier asked, his voice hesitant and unsure. The presence of the knife made it abundantly clear that Geralt believed the men to be a threat and that some level of extra protection was necessary but Jaskier did not possess the same weapon skills Geralt did; hell, he barely had any weapon skills at all. He’d been forced to swing his lute like a bat once or twice but usually when danger arose he simply removed himself from the situation in a quick yet manly fashion (saying he ran away sounds cowardly so he prefers to think of it as tactical survival evacuation).

“Stay alert,” the Witcher told him simply, turning away from the bard and making his way to the mouth of the cave. Had the situation been even marginally less dangerous he wouldn’t have left Jaskier alone with the other men but, considering the circumstances, he still thought the bard’s chances of survival are much higher outside the cave rather than in it. “I’ll be back soon. Probably.”

The bard’s nervous little chuckle followed him into the cave and echoed in his ears as the darkness engulfed him.

**OOOOO**

It would have been nice if the villagers had thought to inform him that it was not one troll he was searching for but a nest of them. There had been at least three, possibly four but it was hard to tell once the fight started. All he knew, all that mattered, was that there was more than one and that made the task infinitely more difficult.

He’s not sure how long he’d been in the cave or even how far he’d gone inside. Between being chased, dragged, and thrown through the labyrinth of tunnels he estimates he’d been at least a mile inside the mountain but it was difficult to determine for sure. By the time the last troll had been killed, it’s enormous head tumbling down into a deep pit at the end of one of the tunnels, it took nearly two hours for Geralt to find his way back to the mouth of the cave.

He stumbles out at dusk, stiff, filthy, and with a pouch full of troll teeth to serve as proof of extermination. The light outside is waning, a dull, dusky hue falling across the surrounding forest. Birds are beginning to roost and there’s a distant sound of crickets and cicadas in the trees. He does a rough estimate in his mind and figures he’d been in the cave for nearly twenty hours, at least as far as he could tell.

It’s quiet when he steps out into the dying light of the afternoon and it sets him on edge. He had been expecting to see Jaskier waiting somewhere outside the cave, practically buzzing with excitement and eager for the Witcher’s story. He’s nowhere to be seen, however, and that’s a little disconcerting.

He refuses to acknowledge the twinge of dread that twists in his gut when he doesn’t see the bard or their escorts when he reaches the makeshift camp either. It would be easy enough to assume the men had grown fearful of the horrible sounds echoing through the cave and had simply returned to the safety of the village but Jaskier, though Geralt was loathe to admit it, was made of slightly stronger stuff and wouldn’t have abandoned him unless the threat had made its way outside.

A wave of cold realization sweeps through him when he remembers that the threat outside the cave could have been just as great as the one within. It’s entirely possible that the men had more sinister motives than fame and glory and had been waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. And he had left Jaskier alone with them.

“Fuck.” The word is a short, sharp growl in his throat as he makes his way back toward the cave where he’d last seen Jaskier. Roach is still there, waiting by a tree patiently, although he knickers disapprovingly at Geralt as the Witcher approaches. The horse’s legs and flank are speckled with blood and there’s a long, thick streak of it across the saddlebags. A quick look assures Geralt that the horse is unharmed and that the blood had not come from any wound he had sustained. Which then leaves the terrible question of whose blood it was.

He hadn’t noticed it before when he first ventured out of the cave, his sense of smell dulled and muted by the stench of the trolls, but now that he was out in the open and the trolls’ scent was fading, he could smell the unmistakable tinge of copper in the air. It was heavy and thick, like hot, raw metal, and it was fresh, maybe only a few hours old.  
Another low growl rumbles through Geralt’s chest and he follows the scent to a crop of trees tucked into the base of a small drop off.

Whatever had happened was fast and violent; dark splashes of blood coated the rocky slope leading down to the trees and the scattering of broken branches indicated an intense struggle had taken place. There was more blood as he got closer, congealed puddles turning the dusty sand beneath his feet into thick, sticky mud.

He sees the first man’s body crumpled at the base of a tree, the dead man’s eyes still open and gazing into nothingness. His throat has been slashed from ear-to-ear but the cuts are not smooth and deliberate, they’re wild and jagged and clearly done in a moment of panic. One of his hands is mutilated, two fingers hacked off and his wrist sliced so deeply that the hand is nearly detached. Flies are swarming around the dead man’s face, skittering across sightless eyes and ducking into the hollow of his mouth.

The second man is sprawled out a little further into the trees, his body much more mangled than the first. A heavy, bloody tree branch lays discarded by the body and the clumps of hair and teeth littered around it make it clear that the branch had been fashioned into a bludgeon before all was said and done. Sure enough one side of the man’s head is crushed and there are crimsons splinters of blood and bone protruding from the wound. A long, deep gash across his abdomen has spilled blood and viscera across the dirt, the exposed organs glossy and pink and covered in flies.

The scene is horrific, there’s no denying that, but what makes it worse is that the two dead men are the ones who traveled with them up the mountain and there’s still no sign of Jaskier. Geralt surveys the gruesome scene for a few seconds more, the muscles in his jaw getting tighter by the second, when he hears a soft rustling behind him. He whips around quickly, blade already drawn, and his eyes come to rest on a small, slumped figure against the base of a nearby tree.

Jaskier’s back is pressed against the rough wood and his shoulders are sagged and rounded like all the energy has been drained out of him. For a brief, alarming second, Geralt thinks he’s dead but then he hears the bard draw in a soft, shuddering breath and feels a small amount of his initial dread begin to ebb. He steps forward cautiously, returning his blade to it’s sheath as he approaches.

Even in the dim light, he can see that Jaskier is absolutely covered in blood. His clothes are splattered with it, his face is streaked, there’s even blood in his hair. His arms are slick and saturated up to the elbow and the sharp, polished blade Geralt had given him before he went into the cave is still gripped tightly in one fist like he can’t let it go. His knees are drawn up to his chest like he’s trying to make himself very small and aside from his quiet, hitched breathing he doesn’t move at all.

Geralt comes to a stop in front of him and lowers himself to one knee. “Jaskier.”

The bard doesn’t acknowledge him at all, his eyes dull and blank as he continues to stare at a clump of grass directly ahead.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries again, speaking a little louder this time.

It has the desired effect and Jaskier blinks himself out of his daze and looks up at the Witcher. “Oh, Geralt,” he mumbles hazily, the words distant and flat like someone waking from a deep sleep. “Did you…” he starts, stops, swallows, tries again. “The troll?” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the mountainside.

“The trolls,” Geralt replies, adding a bit more emphasis than was probably necessary to the ‘s’ at the end. “Are dead.”

“Ah, good,” Jaskier says with a small dip of his head that might have been a nod. He doesn’t speak again.

“Are you injured?” Geralt asks quietly, his eyes roaming over the bard’s bloodstained clothing and face once more. He’s trying to determine where all the blood is coming from and how quickly they could get back down to the village to find medical help; it had been a four day journey to make it this far and if the amount of blood was any indication he doubted Jaskier would survive that long.

The bard doesn’t reply although he opens his mouth like he wants to. The words never come, however, and he remains slack jawed and silent. Jaskier is never silent, not for this long, and that only serves to heighten Geralt’s concern.

“Jaskier,” the Witcher says again and, just like before, it has the desired effect.

Jaskier blinks and looks at him again. “Huh?”

“Are you hurt?”

Jaskier considers the question for a moment before shaking his head. “No,” he says finally although he doesn’t say it with enough confidence to reassure his companion. “The blood is...uh...it’s not mine.” Geralt won’t admit that he’s relieved; he also doesn’t miss the way Jaskier’s voice trembles as he speaks.

He glances back over his shoulder at the two dead men in the trees and then looks back at Jaskier. The knife is his hand is still polished and gleaming but there’s the unmistakable glint of blood on the blade. Apparently he’d been right to insist Jaskier have it before he ventured into the cave.

“What happened?” he asks although he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“The men, they...um…” Jaskier swallows convulsively and lets out a slow, shaking breath. “They tried to steal Roach. When dawn came and you still hadn’t come out of the cave they figured you were dead and said that dead men had no use for horses. I kept trying to tell them that we should wait a while longer, that Geralt of Rivia wouldn’t be bested by a lesser creature like a mountain troll...er, trolls as it was.”

“Hm,” Geralt allows, a rare moment of agreement with the bard. Trolls were a pain in the ass, sure, but he’d most definitely encountered worse.

“I tried to stop them,” Jaskier continues, his eyes going glassy and unfocused again as he relives the memory. “I told them they could keep the money, to take what they wanted and go, but they kept trying to take your horse and I just couldn’t…”

“So they attacked you,” Geralt says; it was an easy enough conclusion to come to.

Jaskier nods once and lets out another shuddering breath. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he insists, his eyes wide and imploring. “I just wanted them to take the money and leave but-”

“You did what you had to in order to survive,” Geralt cuts him off, refusing to indulge Jaskier’s guilt in acting in self-defense. “They attacked you and you fought back.”

Jaskier blinks at him again and his expression crumples just slightly as he stifles back a sob. “I killed them.”

Geralt nods in acknowledgement. “And they would have killed you,” he informs him bluntly; he doesn’t try to soften the words or lessen their sting. The fact of the matter is that the two men who traveled up the mountain with them probably had every intention of robbing and murdering them before the journey was through and simply claiming they had fallen at the hands of the trolls. They probably assumed Jaskier to be an easy target and hadn’t expected him to fight back as hard as he did.

Even without Jaskier’s input, Geralt can reasonably determine what happened. The first man he’d stumbled across had likely struck first, attempting to use the element of surprise to his advantage. Maybe he attempted to grab the reins and got two fingers hacked off in the process. Whether he knew Jaskier had a knife or not was impossible to determine but he found out rather quickly after a few blind but lucky slashes opened his throat and left him choking and bleeding out against the base of the tree.

Judging by the littering of broken branches, Geralt guesses the second man tackled Jaskier and sent them both tumbling down through the trees. The wound in his belly was likely made by the knife but the angle and position makes him doubt it was intentional; the man probably landed on it during the tumble and gutted himself by accident. That would explain the bloody branch and the crushed skull; a weapon of opportunity and a flood of adrenaline led to Jaskier bludgeoning his assailant to death.

In all honesty it didn’t matter how it happened; the men attacked Jaskier and the bard defended himself, simple as that. Geralt is a relatively simple man and he doesn’t tend to ask more questions than need be, especially in a situation like this. Jaskier is still alive and that’s all that matters.

He goes to reach for him but again notices the gleaming blade still gripped in Jaskier’s hand. The shakiness of his breathing and the slight tremble of his hand indicates the bard is still in shock and trying to divest him of his weapon might make matters worse. Keeping his movements slow and deliberate so Jaskier can see his hands are empty, Geralt reaches toward him.

“Give me the knife, Jaskier,” he orders quietly, approaching the bard the way he would a frightened animal.

Jaskier shakes his head nervously. “But what if I-”

“You don’t need it anymore,” Geralt assures him, continuing to reach forward slowly. “The threat has been eliminated. I’ll take it from here.” It’s not the most eloquent way of saying ‘ _you’re safe, don’t worry_ ’ but it’s all he has for now.

The bard hesitates for another second or so before he finally drops the blade into Geralt’s open palm. Even in the dark the Witcher can see the trembling of his hand; he’d been gripping the knife so tightly for so long that the release was causing muscle spasms.

Geralt sighs quietly and slips the blade back into its sheath. He’s irritated about a number of things right now: the fact that the villagers had left out the minor detail of there being multiple trolls instead of one, the fact that it had taken nearly an entire day to get rid of said trolls, and the fact that their two companions had proven to be every bit as shady and untrustworthy as Geralt had assumed. But mostly he’s irritated with himself for putting Jaskier in this position and for leaving him alone with the men in the first place.

Jaskier is stubborn and annoying and gets them both into more trouble than Geralt ever thought possible but it doesn’t change the fact that Jaskier is a good man and doesn’t deserve this kind of trauma. Geralt has no problem using a weapon but people like Jaskier should never have to.

He reaches out and clasps the bard’s cold, bloody hand in his own before slowly, carefully pulling him to his feet. Jaskier allows himself to be pulled along and lets his hand fall back to his side limply once Geralt lets go. He stands motionless for a moment, back still pressed against the tree, and Geralt waits for him to get steady on his feet before he starts moving. After another few seconds, Jaskier takes a few shaky steps in the direction of the embankment, Geralt following closely behind him.

All at once Jaskier stops, his body going rigid like a sculpture. The man with the slashed throat is lying just up ahead, his body still crumpled at the base of the tree. His face is a seething mass of flies, ants, and maggots and a few carrion birds have come to peck at the remains. One of the birds is enthusiastically rooting around in the dead man’s eye socket and it looks up as they approach, black beak glossy with blood and bits of flesh.

Geralt knows what’s about to happen before it even occurs and takes two swift steps forward to catch Jaskier around the waist as the bard doubles over and wretches into the dirt. A few of the birds ruffle their feathers and squawk in annoyance at the interruption but return to their gruesome feast as the humans stare on.

Geralt waits patiently as Jaskier continues to expel the contents of his stomach into the dirt and undergrowth, one arm looped securely around the younger man’s waist while his other hand rests in the flat between the bard’s shoulder blades, offering a small amount of strength and stability. He’s never been good with the whole comforting thing, never needed to be honestly, so he doesn’t know what to do for Jaskier other than thump him on the back awkwardly and make sure he doesn’t trip and collapse into the puddle of vomit at his feet.

It takes a few minutes for the nausea to pass and when it does Jaskier is left weak and trembling in the Witcher’s arms. He gags, coughs, and sniffs miserably for a few seconds longer but eventually he’s able to straighten himself back upright. Satisfied that the worst of it has passed, Geralt carefully guides him away from the corpse and leads him back up the hill toward Roach.

The horse knickers and whinnies impatiently as the two men approach but takes the time to snuffle Jaskier’s hair as he passes, a rare sign of affection the horse usually reserves only for Geralt. Maybe he realized something was off about the normally talkative human or maybe it was an equine way of thanking him for not allowing the two men to take off with him. No such affection is reserved for Geralt, however, and the horse nips as his sleeve as he approaches.

“Hey,” Geralt growls in warning, shooting the horse with a glare that would cripple a lesser beast.

Roach huffs in response.

“Not another word,” the Witcher grumbles, patting the horse on his blood-spattered shoulder as he passes. He busies himself tightening the saddlebags and checking the reins and nods for Jaskier to get on the horse. The bard is still in a daze and this close to tumbling headfirst into full blown shock and he stares at Geralt dumbly as the Witcher prepares Roach for departure.

Geralt sighs and walks over, lifting Jaskier bodily and shoving him up onto the horse’s saddle. “It’s at least a day’s journey to the bottom of the mountain and you’re in no condition to walk the entire way,” he grumbles by way of explanation when Jaskier lets out a confused little yelp at being manhandled so easily.

Normally he wouldn’t have a problem making Jaskier walk alongside Roach but the bard’s waxy pallor and noticeable trembling causes him to reconsider. He’d rather not take the chance of Jaskier tripping in the darkness or passing out and injuring himself along the way and figures he can circumvent those possibilities rather easily by just forcing him to ride Roach as well.

He finishes tightening the reins a few seconds later and pulls himself up onto saddle behind Jaskier. The smaller man is shivering so badly the saddling is vibrating and Geralt doubts his grip is any more impressive. With a soft sigh, he snakes one arm around the bard’s narrow waist and pulls him back against his own body, keeping Jaskier firmly anchored against him. One of Jaskier’s cold, trembling hands grabs onto his own and Geralt allows him to grip his hand if that offers him some kind of stability.

He signals Roach and turns him away from the mountain, directing the horse in the opposite direction and away from the slaughter of both man and monster alike.

**OOOOO**

The journey down the mountain takes less than a day thanks to a less traveled but more direct path to the northeast. Geralt decides they’re not going to return to the village but makes sure to send the bag of troll teeth and a single coin with a messenger once they reach the nearest town. The villagers should know the trolls have been eliminated but he’s not in the mood to explain what happened to the rest of their party; he’s perfectly fine taking the reward and leaving the little village and its people to their own devices.

The town they come to is larger than the village they had come from but only by a few acres. There are two taverns, an inn, and a market for supplies which is all Geralt ever looks for from one town to the next. He guides Roach to the stables next to the inn and slides out of the saddle, tugging Jaskier along with him.

The bard is marginally more composed now that they’re off the mountain but he’s still a gruesome sight to behold. Dried blood still clings to his skin and his normally soft, loose hair hangs in thick, gory clumps against his head. The blood on his clothes has dried and stains the fabric in ugly, maroon splotches. Most of it will probably come out when the clothes are washed but some of the stains may be permanent. The finery of Jaskier’s clothing, however, is not Geralt’s primary concern and once he’s sure Roach is safely stabled and fed, he grabs Jaskier by the arm and drags the bard to the door of the inn.

The innkeeper is more than a little surprised when the towering bulk of a Witcher pushes his way through the narrow door. The man’s wife lets out a strangled little gasp and ushers her children into a back room.

“I need a room and a bath,” the Witcher tells him bluntly, dropping a pouch full of coins on the table. “We don’t want trouble and we’ll be gone in the morning.”

The innkeeper nods nervously and passes him a key, pointing wordlessly down a nearby hallway. The Witcher offers a nod of thanks and drags his companion, a smaller, blood-splattered man down the hall and into the room. The door closes behind them and all is quiet.

A few seconds later his wife pokes her head through the door and he shakes his in return, motioning for her to go back inside and keep the door closed and locked. He has no idea what to make of the two men but figures keeping his wife and children locked away for the night might not be such a bad idea.

The room is sparse and simple, a thin straw mattress in one corner with a fireplace in the other. A small, bright fire crackles contentedly in the hearth and a wooden tub sits close by. A few pre-filled buckets are lined up along the wall, the water inside warm and steaming in the cool evening air.

“Give me your clothes,” Geralt says, indicating Jaskier’s gore-streaked ensemble. “I’ll see if they can be laundered by tomorrow.”

The bard nods numbly and carefully strips off his bloody clothes until he’s left in nothing but his trousers.

“Those too.”

The confused, vulnerable look Jaskier gives him is heartbreaking but Geralt is undeterred. The clothes need to be cleaned otherwise the dried blood will start to smell and attract the kind of attention they don’t want. He’s not about to have a target on his back just because Jaskier suddenly developed a semblance of modesty.

With a sigh Jaskier strips out of the trousers as well and, naked as the day he was born, tosses them to Geralt. The Witcher catches them easily and makes his way to the door. “I’ll find us some food,” he calls over his shoulder as he steps outside the room and leaves Jaskier naked and alone inside.

As if hearing the conversation, the innkeeper meets him in the hall with a tray of food and two mugs of ale. “Beggin’ your pardon for earlier,” the man says, offering the tray as a sign of good faith. “We don’t get many Witchers ‘round these parts so I suppose we was in a bit of’a shock when you wandered in.”

Geralt accepts the food with a nod of thanks and sets it on the floor by the door. “Is there somewhere I can get these washed by tomorrow?” he asks, indicating the bloody clothes bundled under his arm.

The man glances at them and visibly pales before nodding and motioning down the hall toward the main room of the house. “There’s a laundress down by the river. Her fees are a lit’le high but she’s the best this side’a the mountain.”

Geralt nods and starts to push past him but the man stops him once more. “Your friend there,” he says, his eyes wandering toward the door. Geralt feels himself shift slightly so he’s standing in front of the door again, another physical barrier between the outside world and Jaskier within. “Well, I couldn’t help but noticin’ all the blood an’ thought I’d tell you about a healer in town if he’s needin’ aid.”

The barest hint of a smirk tugs at the Witcher’s mouth and he shakes his head slowly. “That won’t be necessary,” he tells the man simply. “The blood is not his.” Seeing the innkeeper’s face pale even further he elaborates. “There was an attempted highway robbery yesterday and Jaskier got the upper hand. I can’t say the same for the men who tried to rob him.”

“Ah,” the man mutters and it doesn’t sound like the explanation has put his mind at ease in the least.

“I’ll be back shortly,” Geralt tells the innkeeper as he passes by and makes his way toward the front door. “Thank you again for the room.”

The innkeeper turns to respond but the Witcher is already gone, disappearing into the night like a phantom. He goes back to check on his wife and children again.

Geralt returns less than an hour later, Jaskier’s bloody clothes successfully delivered to the laundress. The innkeeper was right, her fees were high but Geralt didn’t mind paying them if she was as good as she claimed. An extra coin ensured that the bard’s clothing would be washed and dried by morning and the laundress sent him on his way with a wave.

The innkeeper offers a very slight nod once Geralt returns which the Witcher returns before making his way back to the room. He’s stiff from his battle with the trolls and the ride down the mountain and honestly, all he wants now is food and sleep, but there’s something he needs to take care of first.

Or rather someone.

Jaskier is sitting on his knees in front of the wooden tub, his face and hair still streaked with blood as he scrubs mercilessly at his hands with a rough cloth. He doesn’t look up when Geralt enters, too invested in washing his hands to notice the Witcher’s presence in the room.

A slick of sweat glistens across his taut shoulders and he’s shivering all over like his body can’t decide which sensation it wants to stick with. There’s a wild, slightly panicked expression on the bard’s face as he continues scrubbing, his threadbare hold on composure growing weaker by the second.

Geralt watches him for a moment before stepping forward and snatching the cloth away from Jaskier’s hands. “You know, it would help if you actually got into the tub.”

“There’s blood under my fingernails,” Jaskier informs him bluntly, staring at the tips of his fingers in horror. “And no matter how hard I scrub them I can’t get it off.”

Geralt sighs and lowers himself to one knee next to his naked and trembling companion. He reaches out and gingerly takes one of Jaskier’s hands in his own and holds the bard’s long, narrow fingers up so he can inspect them. Sure enough, there is blood under his fingernails but it’s less to do with the unfortunate men on the mountaintop and more to do with the fact that Jaskier has essentially scrubbed his fingertips raw. The skin beneath his nails is pulled away and bloody and if he continued with his manic cleaning there was a very good chance he’d lose his fingernails all together.

He gives the bard’s injured fingers a light squeeze and lets his hand go. “Get in the tub, Jaskier,” he says, nodding toward the wooden bath.

“I don’t need a bath, Geralt,” Jaskier says which are strong words coming from someone who is utterly filthy and still covered in dried blood. “I just need to get the blood off my hands. Once it’s gone then I can-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again and this time his voice leaves no room for argument.

Jaskier’s shoulders slump in defeat and he mumbles something rather unflattering under his breath before he complies with the Witcher’s demand and climbs into the tub. All at once a bucket of fire-warmed water is dumped over his head and he’s left gasping and spluttering.

“A little warning,” he grumbles miserably, dark hair flopping over his eyes and leaving crimson, watery tendrils streaming down his face.

Geralt hums in the back of his throat, whether in agreement or not is yet to be determined. He grabs another bucket of water and a cleaner rag and takes a seat on a low stool next to the tub. Jaskier is fruitlessly pushing his wet, dirty hair away from his forehead and Geralt catches one of his arms as it comes back down to the tub. He holds the captured limb out straight and dunks the rag into the bucket at his feet.

Layers of dried blood and grime are beginning to loosen thanks to the first deluge but it takes a bit of work to get the wider, thicker splashes of blood to wash away from the skin.

Geralt is a patient man and takes his time washing away all traces of the dead men’s blood from Jaskier’s arm, carefully examining his body for injuries as he does so. Jaskier being covered in blood bothers him for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that he blames himself for it.

It would have been so easy for the situation to have been reversed, for Jaskier to be the one gutted and rotting on the mountainside. Jaskier could have given up easily, let the men take the money and Roach and never put himself in harm’s way. But he didn’t; he stood his ground and fought back and managed to come out on top. He often makes snide remarks about Jaskier being a useless travel companion, about not being able to rely on him in a fight, and now he knows for a fact that’s not true. Jaskier surprised him on the mountain, he’s not ashamed to admit that, but he is ashamed of how that came to happen. Jaskier shouldn’t have been put in that situation and Geralt did it anyway.

He pauses when he gets to the bard’s hand, noticing a few deep gashes across his palm and a slight, unnatural bend to one finger that looks a lot like a fracture. The fact that  
Jaskier hasn’t noticed either of these injuries is alarming but then adrenaline often serves as one hell of a painkiller.

He drops the bard’s injured hand against the side of the tub and walks over to the saddlebags he’d brought into the room with them. He manages to locate a few bandages and a vial of herbs that he can use to dress the wounds and returns to the stool.

Jaskier’s arm hangs limply off the side of the tub, water and fresh blood mixing together to form little crimson puddles on the floor. Geralt lifts his injured hand again and carefully packs the wounds with the herbs before wrapping bandages around his palm and tying it off at the wrist. The fracture will heal itself and as long as Jaskier doesn’t do anything to worsen the injury the bone should mend just fine. Still, he splints it as carefully as he can and wraps a loose layer of bandages around the injured finger to keep it straight.

“Other arm,” he mutters once he’s satisfied the first one has been cleaned and bandaged to his liking. Jaskier offers his other arm wordlessly, the combined warmth of the fire and the water making him drowsy and pliable. He slumps back against the edge of the tub and stares blankly into the crackling flames of the fire.

Geralt also doesn’t know what to make of a silent Jaskier. The bard is always talking, always animated, so full of life. The bard before him now is nothing like the one he knows, quiet and dazed and withdrawn. He doesn’t like it and he’s not sure why he doesn’t like it; there had been a time not too long ago when he would have paid an exorbitant fee just to get Jaskier to shut up for a few minutes.

“If I had known getting a little blood on your hands was all it would take to shut you up I would have done this months ago,” Geralt says and it’s one of his very rare, very ill-timed attempts at humor and, predictably, it falls flat.

Jaskier’s face crumples into a mask of misery and he closes his eyes and shakes his head weakly. “Don’t,” he says simply, the word clipped and tight. “Please don’t joke about this Geralt, not now.”

The Witcher nods. “You’re right,” he says, carefully scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of blood on Jaskier’s forearm. “That was callous of me and I’m sorry.”

Something happens then, a blink and you’ve missed it kind of moment. Jaskier’s lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile and he levels his gaze with Geralt’s. “That’s a first; I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize before. How did that word taste coming out of your mouth?”

Geralt huffs and keeps scrubbing. “Like horse piss.”

Another smirk, thin and translucent as watercolor, but at least it’s something. “Good,” the bard admonishes lightly with a whisper-soft chuckle. The smile vanishes quickly, however, and Jaskier sits up a little straighter in the tub.

“Does it ever get easier?” he asks but it seems like he’s speaking to himself more than Geralt.

“Does what get easier?” Geralt asks even though he knows exactly what Jaskier is asking. He focuses his attention on a collection of small, shallow cuts and scrapes that cover Jaskier’s forearms and shoulder; probably parting gifts from the tree branches he’d toppled through. His left arm is not nearly as battered as his right but it could still do with a little bandaging.

“Killing,” Jaskier elaborates, his gaze growing unfocused and distant again. “Did you feel this miserable and wretched after your first kill?”

“No,” Geralt tells him, dunking the rag back into the bucket and wringing it out into the now pinkish water. He grabs the bandages and focuses in on a few of the deeper cuts along Jaskier’s arm. “The first person I killed was more monster than man; he was a rapist, a sadist, a beast. I didn’t lose a second of sleep after I killed him.”

Once the deeper wounds have been dressed, he sets to work scrubbing away the blood smeared across Jasker’s shoulders and the back of his neck. “There are some I regret, some I won’t let myself forget,” he continues, forcing subconsciousness to tamp down the echoed memory of Renfri’s voice and beautiful curve of her lips. “But I don’t kill for the sake of it or because I want to, in most cases it’s because I have to.”

A long, dark bruise extends from the tip of Jaskier’s right shoulder all the way across his back to his left hip. Again, probably the result of a tree branch but in that moment Geralt wants nothing more than to march back up the mountain and piss on the dead men’s corpses.

“Your situation was no different, Jaskier,” he continues, dipping the cloth back into the water and returning it to bruise-mottled skin of the bard’s shoulders. “You killed those men because you had to; you can rest assured that if you hadn’t killed them they certainly would have killed you.”

Deep down, Jaskier knows this is true; the men on the mountain had every intention of murdering him and making off with both the money and Roach. And for a brief moment he had resigned himself to that fate, a penniless bard slain on the mountainside, his body returning to the earth in the most literal of senses. It was almost poetic in a way. But then he lashed out with the knife, catching the first man in the wrist and then in the throat, and then everything became a panic-induced blur after that.

“I’ve never killed before,” he says quietly, shuddering as he thinks back to the first man gasping and choking on his own blood. It’s a grisly sight he wonders if he’ll ever be able to get out of his head.

Geralt nods once. “I know, and in a kinder world you may never have had to. The world we know, however, could barely be bothered to spit on you if you were on fire.”

He stands slowly and moves the stool to the backside of the tub, taking a seat again with Jaskier’s back to him. He grabs the last bucket of water and pulls it up to the tub. “Tilt your head back and close your eyes.”

Jaskier complies wordlessly and shivers as Geralt takes the rag and drips hot water through his hair, gently loosening the matted clumps and rinsing the blood out slowly. It takes some work, the dried blood creating huge rat’s nests and masses of tangles, but eventually all the blood is washed away and aside from a few scrapes and some ugly bruises,  
Jaskier is clean and whole again.

Geralt allows his fingers to pass through the bard’s clean, wet hair once more before he pulls away. “Don’t doubt your actions on the mountain, Jaskier,” Geralt tells him as he stands and makes his way across the room to another one of the saddlebags he’s carried in the room with them. He has a spare shirt which will suffice for the night until Jaskier’s clothes are ready and he passes it to him when he steps out of the tub. “You deserve to survive just as much as the next person.”

When Jaskier doesn’t meet his gaze, he steps forward and plants a large hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Do you understand? You deserve your survival.”

Jaskier nods shakily and shimmies into the shirt Geralt had given him. It’s huge on him, hanging from his wiry shoulders like a drop cloth, but it will keep him decently warm and covered for the evening and that’s all he can ask for.

“Thank you, Geralt, for...everything,” Jaskier tells him sincerely, his raw, nimble fingers fumbling with the frayed edges of the shirt. He looks small and young and vulnerable and now that he’s clean Geralt can see the makings of dark bruises along his jaw and under his eyes. He hadn’t noticed it before because of all the blood but now he can see just how much of a fight Jaskier put up and the only thing Geralt can think is that he’s proud of him.

“Hm,” the Witcher mutters with a nod, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder briefly before shoving him in the direction of the mattress. “Get some sleep, we leave at first light.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt assures him, grabbing an apple and a mug of ale from the tray the innkeeper had brought them earlier. He’ll save the rest and they can eat it in the morning when they head out. “I’ll make sure the fire stays lit.”

Jaskier seems to hesitate for a moment longer before finally giving up and sinking down onto the mattress. He sits silently for a few seconds, his eyes wandering across the shadows flickering along the walls.

“Lay down, Jaskier.”

Again the order offers no room for argument so the bard does as he’s told and settles down onto the bed. He’s asleep within seconds.

Geralt watches him for a long time, listening to the slow, steady draw of his breathing, a massive improvement over the shuddering gasps he was making the day before. Again he berates himself for putting Jaskier in that position although he has yet to figure out how he would have alleviated that situation because the bard would have almost certainly gotten killed in the cave as well. Still, there’s a difference between fighting monsters and fighting men; it’s much more terrifying when your opponent looks like you.

In the earliest phases of their journey he had deemed Jaskier completely helpless and more of a liability than anything else. He was bound to get himself or Geralt killed and the Witcher wanted no responsibility for the bard’s life on his hands. Yet no amount of indifference, apathy, or downright threatening seemed to get under the younger man’s skin enough to make him go away. Each glare was met with a grin, each barb met with a ballad, and as much as Geralt was loathe to admit it, he found himself impressed by the bard’s sheer tenacity if nothing else. He was determined to become friends with the Witcher and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop him.

The thing about it that, however, is that Geralt doesn’t do ‘friends’. He doesn’t do love or friendship or camaraderie because things like that lead to violent, messy ends. There’s a long held belief that Witchers don’t feel anything, that they are physically incapable of experiencing human emotion. That would make life a hell of a lot easier if it were true. He can feel emotions just as strongly as the next human, he just chooses not to. Blocking out emotion and maintaining that air of indifference was easier because when people got too close they tended to die. Badly.

Which is why he became so desperate to get rid of Jaskier in the beginning because the truth was, gods help him, he liked Jaskier. He liked his energy, his youthful exuberance, his ability to see the world as this bright, beautiful thing rather than the shithole it actually was. Jaskier got under his skin the same way Yennefer did and it drove him crazy; both the mage and the bard had set up permanent camp within the Witcher’s consciousness and he’d be damned if there was anything he could do to get rid of them now.

So when he found Jaskier against the tree, covered in blood and gore and human viscera, it felt like a ball of lead settled in his stomach and his first thought was, ‘ _this is it, this is how I lose him_.’ To say he was surprised to find the bard not only unharmed but also the one responsible for the massacre would be an understatement; he was downright stunned. It takes a lot to surprise a Witcher and Jaskier seemed to be able to do it on a regular basis. It annoyed him, sure, but it also reinforced his reluctant affinity for the troublesome bard.

Geralt’s attention is yanked back to the present as Jaskier shifts across the room, a twitch of the hand and a hitch in his breath. He mumbles something unintelligible and then jolts awake with a gasp. One hand clutches at his throat, the other stretched out defensively, and there’s a look of wild panic is his eyes in the split second between dream and consciousness. He shudders and swallows and his eyes lock on Geralt.

“I thought-” he starts, the rest of the sentence fading into nothingness and shadow.

Geralt stands and crosses the room slowly, coming to a stop next to the mattress and lowering himself to the ground beside it. “Go back to sleep,” he says, resting his back against the mattress just enough that Jaskier can feel his presence. He doesn’t touch him but he makes sure he’s close enough that Jaskier could reach out and touch him if he wanted to.

The bard settles back against the mattress and Geralt pretends not to notice as his bandaged fingers curl around one lock of silver hair. A few moments later his breathing evens out again and he slips back to sleep and doesn’t wake again for the rest of the night.

Geralt remains where he is for a long time, watching as the firelight grows smaller and dimmer as the embers devour the flames. He thinks he might have slept for a while here and there but for the most part he stays awake and keeps watch. He may not have been able to protect Jaskier on the mountain but he can protect him now, if only from the nightmares and guilt.

He never should have let it get this far but there’s no way of stopping it now.

Stupid bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier had a bit of a Lady MacBeth moment there but he'll be fine.
> 
> Anyway, toss a coin to your Witcher and lets be friends on tumblr: atlantis-is-burning


End file.
